


we were born to die (but we’ll go down swinging)

by scarletite



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Adora (She-Ra) Needs a Hug, Alternate Universe, Catra (She-Ra) Needs a Hug, F/F, I promise, No Major Character Death, Semi-Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26458723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletite/pseuds/scarletite
Summary: “I’ll die when I’m nineteen.”Although her ears are back and her voice wavers, Catra’s smile is all teeth. “Well,” she offers up her wrist, the numbereighteenstark against her skin. “Guess I’ll finally beat you at something.”[AU: in which you are born with the age you’ll die on your wrist.]
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 196





	we were born to die (but we’ll go down swinging)

**Author's Note:**

> another story in my ‘i need to stop making new wips’ bundle
> 
> a little bit of an experimental style (like my vae victis fic), but i’m ~exploring~ different styles, so lmk if you hate it

In this world, it’s an accepted fact: you are born with a number on your wrist.

Nobody knows how, or why, but it’s not in the nature of the Horde to ask questions. They grow up on the propaganda that says the numbers are private things, unique, but hidden. A mark of when you will achieve your greatest moment. Something to aspire to, to dream about.

They play speeches from Hordak, some nights, as he glowers down at them and pronounces them ‘proof of your dedication’.

It’s unquestionable, because the Horde does not leave room to ask. 

So, they grow and train in the Horde by the hundreds, maybe thousands. Keep their wrists covered with bandages or wrist cuffs or paint—even in the shower, keep them tucked close, hidden. It’s second nature. 

It is not in Adora’s nature, not then, to question. Maybe not ever, if she’s being honest.

But, she doesn’t need to, in the end.

* * *

Commander Cobalt stands at the head of the room. His face is blank, stance a picture-perfect parade rest, as he tells them the words that will haunt them. “The numbers on your wrist indicate the age you will die.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in.

Kyle, seated to her left, blanches. “I thought, um—we were told that they were the age we’d have out greatest victory?”

“The greatest victory,” he says, at length, “is to die in service of the Horde.”

Adora hears others whispering, shouting, thinks she even hears a chair topple, but—

The world is white noise and nothingness.

She clutches her wrist in a death-grip.

Each thud of her heart is loud, thumping, like the rhythmic ticking of a clock. 

“You’re bleeding.”

Catra yanks Adora’s hand away from her own wrist.

Her nails are tipped red.

She looks up into Catra’s eyes: her best friend, the person she’s trained beside, grown beside, laughed beside and cried beside. She looks up at Catra. At Catra who’s always worn a band on her wrist, nondescript black, like Adora’s. And she can’t imagine keeping this from her, the thought swallowed down like bile.

“I—” her own voice is distant, like it’s underwater. “I’ll die when I’m nineteen.”

Although her ears are back and her voice wavers, Catra’s smile is all teeth. “Well,” she offers up her wrist in return, the number _eigh_ _teen_ stark against her skin. “Guess I’ll finally beat you at something.”

In the room full of shaken Cadets, Commander Cobalt remains indifferent. He blinks at them, slowly, robotically, answers everything like he’s learned it by rote. And, when the final questions fall from their haggard looking unit and gives way to a tense, loaded silence, her dismisses them. 

“You have the afternoon off to process this.” He salutes them. None return it. “Use it wisely.”

* * *

Later, up in their spot, Catra scowls out over the horizon and promises her they’ll stage a rebellion of their own.

“Fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it—I don’t believe in it.” Her words are sharp, certain. Her tail twists and curls over the railing she’s perched on, restless. “Screw that. We’re going to live forever.”

And that’s how it is between them—not I, _we._

They have their fights and their disagreements, but, they will always be Adora and Catra. They are indivisible. A joint entity, born in promises whispered with words like _we look out for each other_ and _we’ll run this place one day._

And Adora too looks out on the horizon, through the smog, the flare of embers and ash from the Forge’s stacks. She peers into it like she’ll find answers there. But all she sees is numbersswimming behind her eyelids when she blinks. All she thinks, heart aching, is that they’re doomed to die young.

But, worse than that. _Eighteen._ Catra will go before her, and that—

The thought makes her stomach twist, knot, until its choking her insides.

“You think so?”

Catra looks over her, must catch sight of the twisting thoughts behind her eyes and—

“Duh,” she reaches out, knocks Adora’s forehead gently with her knuckles. “Don’t give me that sad face, idiot. We’re going to run this place one day, and I can’t have my Second-in-Command looking like a dope.”

Adora laughs, despite herself. “Second-in-Command?”

And Catra laughs too, high and squeaky. She leans over this time, nudging Adora’s shoulder with her own. “Yeah. I mean, Lord Catra has a way better ring to it. You can be my best General though.”

“Wow, Lord Catra, you’re so _generous_.”

Catra lets out a pleased purr, grinning. “And don’t forget it.”

* * *

In the grand scheme of things, learning the truth does not change much.

They, all of them, are a little more morose that first night. The barracks are quiet and still for hours, only broken by the tossing and turning, chasing sleep that won’t come to their busy minds. They might snap at each other more, too, for small things. Kyle gets a snarl from Rogelio when he snores too loud, and that’s a sign if nothing else.

But time barrels forward: there is training, lessons, guard duty and placements and a never ending list of tasks. 

The free time they get is scarce, an afternoon’s down time here, an extended weekend there. But they are at war and rest is a seldom offered reprieve, even for Cadets. They are worked hard, to the bone. Lord Hordak expects nothing less.

It’s like everything and nothing changes: they train from sunrise to sundown, they play pranks on Kyle, they spend their free time in their spot, and at the end of the day they huddle on ~~Adora’s~~ their bed and whisper about it all. There is still a shadow hanging over them, as they cover their arms in sleeves or wristbands, but it’s like clouds with a sun peeking through.

It’s not the same, but when they’re together, Adora can believe it doesn’t feel too different either.

* * *

“When we’re in charge,” Catra pants, on their fifth mile of ten, “I’m going to outlaw morning drills. No more waking up before noon.”

And Adora, sweating and red-faced already, laughs. It’s light and free and, okay, maybe she’s wheezing more than laughing. But it is a bubbling, happy thing in her chest as they lope side-by-side in the hot sun. “Promise?”

There must be something about the way she says it, maybe. The way the words hit.

(Because they are fourteen now, growing together and apart like spreading roots, but the first and only thing they have is each other. Each other, and the promises that they whisper in the midnight hours.)

But, for a moment, Catra falters, loses her footing. 

“Watch out,” Adora says, catching her arm. She flashes her a smug grin. “I thought cats always landed on their feet.”

“Get off,” Catra scowls. “Your hand’s sweaty, it’s gross.”

“Oh, yeah?” Just for that, Adora holds on tighter. She abandons all pretense of running, just stands there, swiping her palm down the soft fur of Catra’s forearm until she screeches and yowls— _oh, ew, gross, stop, no!—_ and then cackles. “Is that better?”

Bristling, Catra shoves her away, tail blown twice its size and pupils narrow. “You better start running!”

Adora grins. “Race you to the Forge!”

“You’re on!”

And Catra catches her, easily. 

She’s always been fast where Adora is strong, lithe where Adora is solid. So, when she catches her by the shoulders and pounces her into the dirt, cackling, well—

Adora laughs, too.

It’s the best training she’s ever had.

And that’s how it is: sometimes, when she’s busy or she’s happy or she’s just too busy _living_ , she dares to forget that there’s a timer ticking down.

* * *

“How do you think you’ll die?”

Adora turned fifteen two days ago, and she’s laying in her bed with her best friend curled up at the end. It’s after lights out, the room is dark and mostly quiet, and they should have been asleep an hour ago.

“I don’t care,” Catra yawns. “I’m not going to die, remember?”

Adora nudges her with her foot, ignoring the squeak and the swat of claws against her calf. “C’mon, I’m serious!” Her voice comes out sharper than she intends, and there’s a grumble from the bunk across from hers. She tries again, quieter. “Don’t you wonder?”

It’s something she’s thought about a lot, something that jolts her awake some nights, squirming or punching.

The others laugh about it— _of course she fights in her sleep_ , _Adora_ _really can’t relax at all, can she?—_ but she can’t make the explanation come.

“Not really.”

“ _Catra_ ,” Adora groans.

She rolls her eyes. “Alright, fine, whatever—I’ll probably go out fighting or whatever. I mean, I’ll be eighteen, it’s not like there’s lots of eighteen year olds just dying peacefully in their sleep.”

“You’ve got to be more specific than that!”

“Why?” This time, Catra does pick up her head, frowning. “Never took you for being the morbid type. What, you want me to tell you that my head’s gonna get chopped off or something?”

Adora gives a full body cringe. “No! And it’s not morbid, it’s just…we have these dates, right? Don’t you think it’s unfair that they don’t tell us _how?_ So we can, I don’t know, be prepared?”

“Life isn’t fair. Thought you would’ve learned that by now.”

It’s blunt, and so, _so_ Catra that it almost makes Adora laugh. Or it would, if it didn’t make her so unbearably sad.

Instead, she kicks her again, ignoring the hiss. “Well, I’d feel a lot better if I knew how. It’s just—” Adora pulls her legs away from Catra, pulls them up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. When she speaks, her voice is low, soft. “Do you think it will hurt? Or that we’ll be scared?”

Catra’s ears fold back. “I don’t think dying’s supposed to be easy.”

“Yeah,” Adora agrees, stomach twisting. “But do you think it’ll be hard?”

And although Catra is fourteen still, there’s something old and unbearable in her eyes when she catches Adora’s. “I think,” she says after a moment, looking away, “that sometimes living is harder.”

Adora stiffens. “Catra—”

But she doesn’t respond. Instead, Catra clambers off the end of the bed and hops up into the bunk above. The one she hasn’t slept in for a month. She doesn’t respond, even when Adora calls her name as a plea, over and over.

Eventually, when her pleading earns nothing, Adora curls up alone on her cold, empty bed and stares up at the bunk above. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

They don’t speak again that night.

Adora doesn’t ask again.

* * *

“Why?” Adora dares ask, one day. 

Shadow Weaver pauses, eyes narrowing marginally. She waits, says nothing.

And there are a million things that are unsaid in that silence. Adora has learned the hidden values of it now. She knows that Shadow Weaver expects her to be nothing but the best, and the best do not question their superiors. But this? Call it bravery, stupidity, sheer stubbornness, but—

She elaborates. “Why me? There’s a million other cadets you could work with, one’s who will,“ she stumbles, for an instant, over the words, “last longer, why is it me?”

“Because I sensed your potential, Adora.” Shadow Weaver’s voice is soft, crooning, but there’s something behind it that Adora can’t place. “Even when you were a child, I knew we would do great things together.”

“But, my number.” She grips her covered wrist. “Why bother?”

“There are a great many things in this world that can be harnessed, Adora. Power, potential, _life_ ,” behind her, the Black Garnet crackles and sparks, flaring in time with the gem inset in her mask. She stretches out a hand, cups the curve of Adora’s cheek, her nails hooked like claws. “These are fleeting things, but, when used properly, they can create _change_.”

“Change?” Adora whispers.

The nails dig harder, pinpricks in her skin. “Indeed.”

Her mind fills with thoughts of Catra, the clock slowly ticking down on her wrist. How Adora would give her _everything_ if it meant that she could give her more, to let her die old and happy, not young and a casualty of war.

Her voice tremors. “Even with the time I have left?”

“We will be _great_ together. _”_

* * *

When Adora is seventeen, she is made a Force Captain.

It's amazing and shocking and absolutely _everything_ she's been working towards since she was born: every training session, every infirmary trip, every late-night drill and every class she's ever taken. It's all lead to this. To the shining badge on her lapel.

"Lord Hordak sees great promise in you." Shadow Weaver's face is blank, but there's something that might be a _smile_ in her voice. "In fact, he has elected you the honor of leading a squadron in the invasion of the rebel Fortress of Thaymor."

"Thaymor? You mean we're finally seeing active duty?"

" _You_ are seeing active duty."

"But I'll be able to bring my team along, right?

"Your team is not ready. They'll only slow you down."

It doesn't feel real, and even more so, the idea of doing it without her team—without _Catra_ —chafes in a way she can't explain.

"Shadow Weaver, with respect, they've been training hard for this, too. And Catra, all she wants is to get out there and prove herself."

"Then she should have worked harder to prove herself to me. This is what I raised you for, Adora. Now is your chance to prove yourself." Shadow Weaver turns fully to her now, and Adora's shoulders square. "Is this not what you've wanted since you were old enough to want anything?"

"Yes."

"With you at the forefront, we will crush the Bright Moon Rebellion once and for all." Her eyes narrow. "Do not disappoint me."

* * *

And then there is a skiff, a crash, a sword.

Nothing great changes, in this world. She still faces a woman who speaks like she _knows_ her, still wakes up with Catra’s worried face over her, and lets herself get hustled back to the Fright Zone with her head spinning.

There is a voice in the back of her head— _Adora, Adora, Adora—_ it won't go away, it's growing louder and stronger, and she aches with a pull that feels rooted into her very soul. She tosses and turns for what feels like hours, but sleep doesn't come. Every time she thinks it might— _Adora_ —she jolts back awake.

Adora pulls on her boots, slips from bed, before she knows it.

"Hey, where are you going?"

And she can't explain, can't make the words come. It's like there's fishhooks in her chest, tugging, unrelenting now.

She stumbles through a brief explanation, shoves Catra back gently but firmly when she tries to come. Because she knows, deep in her bones, to her soul, that this is something she needs to do alone. She doesn't know why, but—

"Just cover for me okay? I'll be back before anyone knows I'm gone."

(Adora is only seventeen, but even when she is older and wiser, she will look back on this moment and regret.)

* * *

In her laundry list of things Adora will wish she can change, meeting Bow and Glimmer will never be one.

Bow is a breath of fresh air, kind and earnest and warm in a way that takes her off guard, and he slips into her heart through a door she never knew it had. He’s unlike anybody she’s ever met in the Fright Zone. Even when she’s being taken prisoner, he treats her like a _friend_ , and it takes her a long time to realize he’s just _like that_. 

Glimmer is more familiar, in a way. She is angry and suspicious in a way that reminds her of Catra, but there are softer edges to her. She is stubborn, persistently hopeful and driven in a way that is all her own. Despite how slow she is to trust, watching Adora like a hawk and ready to strike, her friendship is sudden and _fierce_. 

She hates them for all of a few hours, but she'll love them until she is nineteen and breathing her dying breath.

And there is still a sword, still a monster, and she still becomes a Princess. 

They still argue, she still gets taken prisoner, they still lead her into a town and she still experiences the best day of her life.

She still breaks her promise.

* * *

Adora is still seventeen, and a town is burning.

Her best friend stands in front of her, laughing, but earnestly glad to see her in the ruins and the rubble.

"There's no time. We have to stop this!"

Catra blinks. "What? _Why?_ "

"Look around. This is a civilian town. These aren't insurgents, they're innocent people!"

There is screaming and flames and dust, and these are the very same people she sat with and watched _dance_. They played music and fed her the best food she's ever had, so full of joy and fun. And their town is alight, crumbling around them, at the hands of the people whose symbol she wears. 

And in another world, she would be behind it all. 

The moment she realizes that, she knows she's done. She knows she can't go back.

"I'm not going home," she says eventually, over the roaring of blaster fire. "Not after everything I've seen."

Catra looks back at her, and it's like a yawning, gaping space is growing between them. She looks at Adora like she's never really seen her, never known her. 

If they were once roots twining together, then this is like pulling them apart at the stems. 

* * *

Adora is seventeen, and she stands as She-Ra on the battlefield.

Adora is seventeen, she watches her best friend disappear into the smoke and the carnage.

("Catra!"

All she has is familiar eyes, gazing at her for a moment, betrayed.

And then she's gone.)

Adora is seventeen, and she breaks her promise.

Adora is seventeen, and she _leaves_.

* * *

When Catra is sixteen, she is made a Force Captain.

There is ash in her lungs, dust on her skin and betrayal deep in her bones.

She slashes her claws through memories, through shrieking steel, imagines there's another face in its place. 

She rages and hisses and, when Shadow Weaver drags her before Hordak, despite her fear, she _burns_.

Hordak considers her, from the shadows of his throne.

"Rise, Force Captain Catra."

And so, she does.

She accepts the badge, hands shaking but claws wicked-sharp.

She strains under the weight of the broken promises and dreams, feels them tangle like a no-man’s land in the empty space in her chest and her bed.

And yet, she swears to herself she’s better off, anyway. That people have always let her down, _especially_ Adora, and that this is her time to step out of her shadow. Catra tells herself that now she'll finally be allowed to be _best_ , just like she's always wanted.

And it is terrifying, heady, and despite Shadow Weaver’s stuttering, she knows that this is her chance to claw her way to the top. It’s just—

She never imagined doing it alone.

"One day," Catra hisses up at the accusatory sky, later. Her hands are fisted around the railing and her eyes are on the burning moon above, hoping there's another set looking. "I'm going to run this place, without you."

And there's nobody to answer, nobody to care.

All she has is an empty, gaping hole and a broken promise scattered on the floor.

Catra is sixteen and she's _alone._

**Author's Note:**

> you can harass me on my tumblr: adorabottoms


End file.
